Whispers of Bedlam Asylum (Sigmund Shaw Book 2)

by Mark C. King

  This was the question she was waiting for. This was going to be her door to Bedlam. After hearing the question, she shot a most serious look at the round constable and started to give her head quick shakes to the right and left. Then, dropping her tea to the floor, she held up one hand toward the two men and said, quietly at first, “No. No no no.” Then louder, “No, please no!” Finally, she hugged her arms around her, stared at the desk, and continually mouthed the words ‘no’.

  The two constables looked at each other, uncertain with how to proceed. Their expressions were what Charlotte was hoping for, a mix of pity, worry, but also had an unexpected touch of fright. She tried to put herself in their position and concluded that dealing with a person that was not rational, that was unpredictable, could indeed be a frightening experience. If her plan worked, she would be living with many such ones.

  The first constable broke the silence and said, “Miss Caine, we can take you to the police station-”

  She interrupted him by mumbling the word, “Bedlam.”

  By the look on their faces, both men must have understood, but the first one asked, “Could you repeat that? Did you say Bedlam?”

  Without looking at them and keeping up her agitated gestures, she mumbled a little louder, “Bedlam.”

  The round constable stood up and looked at his blue-eyed partner and said, “Too right. I think our dancer here escaped.”

  His partner nodded silently, clearly astonished at how this was turning out. The round man continued, “It is a wonder she didn’t hurt herself, or freeze to death. Let us hope she has not hurt anyone else.”

  “So what do we do now?” The first constable asked.

  “Simple. We take her back to Bedlam.”

  7.

  Sigmund pulled his top hat tight to his head, praying the wind would not blow it off down the street again. The walk from his home to Harry’s stable was a short one, but short is relative in the heart of winter. Putting his hands deeper in his pockets, he hunched his shoulders and pressed on through the grey drizzle. He envied his monkey, Zachary, as the little creature was sleeping in his bed near the fireplace. Sigmund didn’t have the heart to take him out in this weather. Zachary had better hope that Sigmund could not find a monkey sized overcoat.

  Since the called-in favor, Sigmund had been in a foul mood. The task itself was concerning enough, but he still couldn’t get past the audacity of Dr. Ferriss sending a telegram to Alexis. Sigmund had always put his family first, doing everything he could to protect them. The idea that they were in some danger because of him was a bitter and angering thought.

  Turning off of Albany Street, he was greeted by another grey road, with a few people about. London had never seemed so monochromatic as it did that day. Seeing Harold ‘Harry’ Thorpe’s home, with the stable building next to it, was a welcome sight. The house was small, but it had a warm cottage feel to it. Apart from Alexis, Harry was Sigmund’s greatest friend. More than that, Harry was a mentor and father figure. Sigmund’s own father died from an illness while he was young and his mother had been too devastated to be of much help. It was a difficult time for the family, but Harry was there to help get them through.

  The stables held horses for many cab drivers, just like Sigmund, and the boarding fees were how Harry made his living. Being that it was already late morning, most stalls were empty. Sigmund spied inside the stable and saw his horse, Ham, waiting patiently. Ham was the name that Sarah gave the horse when she was young. The family tried to talk her out of it, but to no avail. Sarah was adamant and since she was given the responsibility, Sigmund’s horse was named Ham.

  Looking around the stable, Sigmund was surprised to not see Harry out and about, working on something or another. Turning away from the entrance, he walked over to the front door of the house and knocked. Almost immediately he heard footsteps coming to answer.

  When the door opened, a kindly looking man exclaimed, “Ah, Sig! A little later than usual.”

  ‘Sig’ was not a nickname that Sigmund particularly liked, but Harry was allowed to get away with it. “Hello Harry,” Sigmund responded cheerfully, despite his mood. “Not out in the stables this morning?”

  “Out in this?” Harry asked incredulously, pointing through the doorway at the weather. “This is fine weather for a duck I imagine, but not for these sore old bones. Now come inside and warm up a bit.”

  Walking in the home, Sigmund quipped, “This is London weather at its finest! That is, if you can ignore the rain, the cold, and the wind.”

  “Oh, is that all?” The living room of Harry’s home felt as warm as the outside looked. This was the result of Harry’s late wife, Katherine. Sigmund sat himself at the kitchen table while Harry took a pot of water off the stove and poured a cup of tea for each of them. As he brought the hot beverage over, he said, “I was starting to think you were going to take the day off. Not that I would have blamed you with this weather.”

  Sigmund had decided earlier that he would tell Harry about Dr. Ferriss and the favor. He nearly lost him as a friend because of other hidden things, and would not allow that to happen ever again. “Well, Harry, I’m not exactly working today.”

  “Is that so? So you came out in the rain and cold to harass a handsome old man?”

  “Precisely. Please let me know when he arrives.”

  “Don’t worry,” Harry chuckled, “you’ll recognize him by the foot he will place up your bum.”

  Sigmund laughed. Harry may be getting older, but he was still quick. “Actually, Harry, I am fulfilling a favor that I owe. A favor that could be difficult, but needs to be done.” Sigmund proceeded to tell Harry about Dr. Ferriss and his questionable profession, the telegram, and their meeting the previous night.

  “My goodness, Sigmund!” Harry said with true concern. “This Ferriss fellow is of quite the low sort, isn’t he? So what is your plan?”

  After taking a sip of his tea, Sigmund answered, “he gave me a name and address of an associate of his – presumably the person delivering, if not snatching, the bodies for the doctor. It is at East End, along the canal near Narrow Street. I will track him down, find out the source of the shriveled brain bodies and see if that is sufficient.”

  Harry rubbed his hand over his stubbly grey chin while thinking and then said, “He really thinks that a disease could cause this?”

  “I’m not sure that he knows, but it was clearly a concern of his.”

  “How could one catch it?”

  “Good question, Harry. That is not known either.”

  A grim silence fell over the two of them. They drank their tea while Harry considered what he was told. Secretly, Sigmund hoped Harry would have some simple solution that would get him out of the whole thing, but none was given.

  When Sigmund’s cup was empty, he stood up and said, “I’m off then, Harry. Is there anything you need while I’m about?”

  “Just stay safe, my lad. Disease or no disease, East End is no picnic.”

  Sigmund opened the front door, the cold drizzle making its presence known, and looked back kindly at his friend. With a nod, he answered, “Don’t worry Harry, I always have something up my sleeve.” Giving a final, hopefully confidence building smile, he left.

  The warmth of Harry’s home was quickly stolen by the wind and he hurried into the relative warmth of the stable. Approaching the last stall Sigmund stroked the neck of his horse and said, “Hey there, girl. You ready for a little work today?” Ham moved around in barely contained excitement – glad to see Sigmund and knowing that she would get to go out.

  Within a few minutes, the well-practiced task of hooking the cab to Ham was completed. Sigmund climbed to the driver’s seat and urged the horse onto the street.

  There was no direct route from the stables in the South of London to Narrow Street. Sigmund had to go north across Tower Bridge and then head east towards the canal. A few people along the way tried to flag him down for a ride, but he kept on as if he either didn’t see them or already h
ad a passenger. He felt bad for this, as the weather was brutal, but he could not allow any distractions or delays.

  His route kept him near the Thames, a favorite view of his, but even it looked uninviting today. His usual happy thoughts of captaining a boat along its waters somehow made him feel even colder.

  It was just after Big Ben’s twelfth strike that Sigmund reached the canal. He found a location to tie up Ham and gave her a couple sugar cubes as a reward for her work. How this horse didn’t mind the weather was beyond Sigmund.

  “I’ll be back soon,” he said while stroking her now wet mane. As he started to walk beside the canal, he took out the slip of paper that was given to him by Ferriss. Holding it close to his chest to try and keep it from getting too wet, he read: ‘Reginald Burke, 17 Goodheart Place’.

  There were not too many residential buildings on this street, but perhaps this man had a flat above a storefront. Sigmund walked north, the canal to his right, and searched for the right number. A few individuals passed by him, bundled to varying degrees, and not at all interested in smiling at a stranger. East End was not known for its friendliness, unless being robbed or assaulted was considered friendly. A few children where about, none of them dressed in a way that looked like they could possibly be warm enough, but they didn’t seem to mind as they played their various games. Sigmund continued searching for the address and when he found it, he was surprised that it was a small place called, The Boatyard Pub. Could Reginald Burke live here? Had Dr. Ferriss made a mistake?

  The building itself was made of old weathered brick, the windows were brown from dirt, and had a door that could have been from the dark ages. Not knowing what else to do, and not against getting out of the cold, Sigmund entered the pub. The inside was lit by a few lamps and some table candles. It smelled of stale beer and old smoke, but at least it was warm. There were a few people at the spartan wood tables and a large server behind the small bar, opposite the door. The patrons seemed to be of all sorts, but had in common the red noses of generous alcohol, the patched clothes of those who preferred drink over fashion, and the subtle stares at a stranger in their midst. Deciding quickly, so as not to just stand in the entrance and make a spectacle of himself, he made his way over to the bar. If Reginald Burke was around, the barman would likely be Sigmund’s best bet at finding him.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Sigmund said.

  “What do you want?” the barman responded in a slightly suspicious tone.

  Sigmund did not normally frequent places like this, but he knew enough that he would be putting down some money in order to get anywhere. “I’d like a beer, please,” he answered and then reached in his pocket and pulled out double what the drink was worth and put it on the bar.

  The barman slid the money into his large hairy hand and turned to fill a mug. When he turned back to Sigmund, he set the drink down roughly, splashing some of its contents out of it. Sigmund nodded and took a drink. He couldn’t decide if the mug was dirty or if the beer was just that bad – probably both.

  Careful not to look around too much, for fear of drawing more suspicion to himself, he sat at the bar for a couple of minutes and focused on his rubbish drink. There were quiet conversations happening from the others around him and the occasional laugh. When he drank about all he could take, which wasn’t much, Sigmund said to the barman, “Excuse me.”

  The man turned around, not looking very pleased to being disturbed from his duty of washing some dishes in a tub of water that probably hadn’t been replaced since the place first opened. He stared at Sigmund, not feeling the need to push himself to speak.

  Sigmund continued, “I am supposed to meet someone here, but he seems to be late. Do you know where I might find a Mr. Reginald Burke?”

  The barman immediately looked past Sigmund to one of his patrons. This Reginald Burke evidently was here, thought Sigmund. Not wanting to betray that he saw the look, Sigmund just waited for an answer.

  The barman returned his eyes to Sigmund and said, “Haven’t heard of him.” And then turned back to his dishes without further comment.

  Standing up, Sigmund pulled out his watch to check the time. It was near half past twelve – not that he cared, he just wanted to take a moment to consider his approach. Then, turning towards where the barman had looked, he found that there were three men at a table, none looking his way. The rest of the people in the room kept their eyes on Sigmund, some surreptitiously while others just outright stared. The lack of looks from the target table confirmed that this must be where Reginald Burke was sitting. But which one was he?

  The man on the left was a muscular looking man with red hair and a red mustache. Scottish would be Sigmund’s first guess. The man in the middle was more fat than muscular, but still not anyone that you would want to meet in a dark alley. His black hair was just curly enough to have its ends stick up all over. The third man, the man on the right, looked the youngest of the three and had straight brown hair that hung into his eyes. Red, Curly, and the Kid, thought Sigmund. One of these three was Burke.

  Sigmund approached the table and said to Curly, the man in the middle, “Reginald Burke? Dr. Ferriss asked me to contact you.”

  Curly didn’t say anything but immediately turned and looked at the Kid. Red looked at Curly and then also turned his gaze to the young looking one. Sigmund had guessed wrong, but it didn’t matter as he now knew exactly who Reginald Burke was – the Kid.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Sigmund to Curly. “I was mistaken.” Then turning to look at the Kid, Reginald, “Mr. Burke, we need to discuss something.”

  Burke cocked his head and shot a hateful glance at Sigmund. “Bugger off.”

  Sigmund expected no less. “Sir, it is a matter of some urgency. It is in regards to some deliveries made recently.”

  Burke’s eyes widened a little. Clearly he understood that Sigmund knew his profession. Still, whether from pride, or from nervousness, he responded, “I think you have the wrong man. Now go away or me and my mates will have to deal with you.”

  A sigh escaped Sigmund’s lips. This could have been so easy. “I am not leaving until we have a conversation. If that includes your mates, then so be it.”

  The barman, like the rest in the pub, was watching the exchange. He bellowed out, “I’ll have no fighting in here, you lot take it outside.”

  Without any hesitation, the three men stood up. Sigmund walked out the door first, feeling the men behind him. A few steps away from the entrance, drizzle and cold wind whipping about, Sigmund turned around and faced his opponents. Never a great fighter, and certainly not good enough to beat three men, Sigmund still had confidence as he came prepared. The comment to Harry that he ‘had something up his sleeve’ wasn’t just a saying, it was literal in his case. Much of the previous day was spent crafting a wrist gauntlet that would use compressed air to squirt out a chloroform concoction. The look of it was basic, a copper vial for the air, another one for the liquid, a tube between them with a button to control the valve. Rudimentary? Yes. Effective? He was about to find out. Sigmund lifted his right arm and grabbed his right wrist with his left hand. This move compressed the button to activate the device hidden in his sleeve and launched a stream of liquid – first at Red and then quickly at Curly. The two men wobbled on their feet for a moment and then fell to the ground unconscious. Burke stood in shock, mouth open, looking at his two companions. After a moment, he turned to Sigmund with wide eyes and at the arm now pointing at him.

  “Wh-what did you do?” stammered Burke fearfully.

  “A concentration of cobra poison,” Sigmund lied. “Would you like to try?”

  “No!” he shouted while putting up his hands in defense.

  “Alright then. Let’s take a walk.” Sigmund didn’t want to stay near the bar in case others wanted to get involved. He had a limited amount of liquid in his gauntlet, and had probably used up more than half already.

  Burke was still in a state of disbelief but walked with Sigmund as they moved away
from the bar. They kept their heads down against the drizzle and walked side by side.

  “Now, Reginald,” started Sigmund, “I really was sent by Doctor Ferriss and the topic is indeed urgent. I know what you do for him and, frankly, I don’t really care.” Sigmund looked for any relief that last comment might have given his companion, but he was still in a state of near panic from watching his friends drop. “Some of the bodies had an abnormality that caused their death. An abnormality that has not been seen before. I need to know where the bodies came from.”

  “I didn’t kill those people. I didn’t kill no one.”

  “Of course not, but something did.”

  “Something?” Burke asked in alarm.

  “Look, Reginald, this abnormality affected the brains of these individuals. The brain shriveled up like a grape in the sun. I need to know why that is happening and how large of an issue it is. There could be a new epidemic in London and in order to find all this out, I need to know where they came from.”